


DESTROYA: The Dadcore Deity

by willshakeaspear



Category: DESTROYA - My Chemical Romance (Song), Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Dadcore, Synth Pop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 08:02:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10760106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willshakeaspear/pseuds/willshakeaspear
Summary: Wandering through the desert, somewhere near the borders of zones 5 and 6, you stumble across a lawn chair…





	1. The Altar

**Author's Note:**

> So just bear with me through all of this, okay? You'll either like it or hate it, but I think you'll keep reading. Don't be afraid of the synth-pop in your soul.

Wandering through the desert, somewhere near the borders of zones 5 and 6, you stumble across a lawn chair… on it is placed empty beer cans, lone sandals, candles inside tin cans and bottles, and scraps of Hawaiian shirts that are tied into windchimes. A boombox sits in the sand next to it, playing a warped version of “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” by Tears for Fears on an endless repeat. This is it. This is where you come to worship.  
Destroya.  
Kneel down, put your hands in your pockets and add a handful of sand and a bottle-opener onto an armrest. Then you pray.  
_Jitterbug, jitterbug, jitterbug, jitterbug- You put the boom boom into my heart, you send my soul sky high when your lovin' starts. Wake me up before you go-go, wake me up before you go-go, I don't want to miss it when you hit that high, wake me up before you go-go!_  
Before leaving add one more thing- a battered cassette tape, you think you'll change the song on the boombox- but you cannot find where the tape should go in or come out. Tears for Fears keeps looping, infinitely, somehow. Everybody wants to rule the world. Something like a prayer. Something like magic.


	2. Heart-Shaped Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destroya crushes a brewski behind Tommy Chow Mein's and steals some sunglasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blaster Babe and Lady Luck belong to me. Destroya belongs to the sun, the sand, and the synth waves.

It was hot, but it was the motherfuckin’ desert, so what could you expect? Global warming hadn’t started going in reverse yet last time anyone had checked and looking for signs of a nuclear winter was pointless. But anyway. It was hot. Blaster Babe was standing out back of Chow Mein’s shop, rummaging in their pocket for the heart-shaped sunglasses that were probably their prized possession. The sun flared for a second, flames in their vision, a wave. They blinked, sun spots obscuring their vision in red, orange, and yellow. 

One spot stubbornly refused to blink away, and it took a while for Blaster to stop frantically winking to realize that it was a glare off of what was standing in front of them. 

If you looked at the shoulders down, it looked like a dad going for a barbecue. Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts, socks and birkenstocks. One hand clutched a canned beer. The head was where things were a bit different- they looked like a really old-fashioned droid. Before they had really human faces. A smooth dome of gleaming bronze metal, a hinged jaw with rusty screws, and two blank holes for eyes. Somehow, they conveyed a strong sense of ennui anyway.

“Hey,” the robot said, voice sounding like a car exhaust pipe that was belching its last. 

“Hey,” Blaster responded. Confused, but never sacrificing chill politeness. “Who are you?” 

“Who do you think?” The robot asked. Despite the lack of eyebrows, the expression of “duh” was clear. And Blaster knew. 

“Destroya?” 

In answer, the robot took a swig of beer. “In the titanium,” they creaked. 

“What are you doing here?” Blaster lifted their heart-shaped glasses onto their face, shielding from the glare of Destroya’s bronze dome. They’d be lying if they said they weren’t a little awed. What did Destroya want with them? Were they going to destroy BLI once and for all?

“I’m having a beer, what does it look like,” Destroya responded, draining the can and crunching it in a metal fist. “Anyway, peace out.” 

“You’re leaving?” 

“For now.” Destroya reached out towards Blaster, and they froze as the strangely warm hands plucked off their sunglasses. The pink sparkly hearts covered those blank eye holes, and they turned on their heel with one more creak of metal on metal. Blaster watched until Destroya had walked away and faded like a mirage. Eventually they managed to walk back out front where Lady Luck was waiting, painting on her legs as she waited for Blaster. 

“I saw Destroya,” They said. Lady Luck looked up, and scanned Blaster until her eyes fell on the box in their pocket. 

“You bought hair dye instead of water.”


	3. Party Poison Meets Destroya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party Poison wakes up to a divine dad visitor.

Party Poison woke up sprawled on the ground, unsure of how he’d gotten there. This in itself was not unusual. His head pounded, eyes shut tight against the blazing sun, and his mouth was cotton- no, there was sand in his mouth. He twisted his head around, wincing at a shot of pain up his neck, and spit as much as he could muster the saliva for. 

A dark shadow fell on him, and Party squinted up at the tall figure that was making it possible for him to actually open his eyes without his brain exploding. 

The first thing he noticed was the Hawaiian shirt. It was bright, garish, and one of the ugliest things aesthetically that Party Poison had seen in a long time. 

He wanted it desperately. 

The next thing he noticed was the generations-old droid that the Hawaiian shirt was on. It looked down at him with what could only be described as great indifference. As far as shepherds to the next life, because Party had to be dying he felt so shitty, this was not exactly what he’d been expecting. 

“Hey,” the droid said, sounding like they need to chug at least 3 gallons of oil. 

“Uh, hey,” Party responded. His voice didn’t sound too great either, and he winced at the volume of it in his own ears. “Who exactly are you?” 

The droid didn’t have eyes, but rolled them nonetheless. And realization hit Party like a ton of bricks. 

“Destroya?” 

“You always sound so disappointed.” Destroya sighed. “Listen, I know I’m not what you expect, but no one ever is, kid. No one ever is.” 

With a massive creak that sent more pain through Party’s spine, Destroya sat down in the sand next to Party. They took a can out of their shorts pocket, brushed sand off the top, and cracked the tab. Party watched, unable and unwilling to move. 

“I guess I just didn’t expect to meet you when I died.” Party explained. 

“Oh you won’t,” Destroya responded. 

“What?” 

“Yeah you’re not dying,” they explained, taking a sip from their can. “You’re just having a bad trip.” There was a sound like an engine struggling to start, and Party realized it was Destroya laughing. “Nah kid, you’ll know who comes for you when you die. No mistaking her.” 

“So am I just hallucinating this then?” Party asked, not entirely sure what he wanted the answer to be. Destroya shrugged.

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I stopped by to say D.A.R.E to say no to drugs or whatever, or maybe I’m bored, or maybe I wanted to steal your beer while you were too stoned to move.”

Another exhaust pipe sigh. 

“Either way, I’ve gotta get going. Your crew is almost here, by the way,” Destroya stood, dusted off their cargo shorts. They took a step, then paused. “And they’re never going to believe you.”


	4. Destroya's Frequency: Vibrate Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you ever want to shed your bones and become one with the synth-pop bops? Here's Destroya's playlist for you.

The Hymnal: 

Africa- Toto  
Karma Chameleon- Culture Club  
Such a Shame- Talk Talk  
I Ran- A Flock of Seagulls  
Don't You Want Me- The Human League  
Whip It- Devo  
Tainted Love- Soft Cell  
Take On Me- A-ha  
Time After Time- Cyndi Lauper  
Rock the Casbah- The Clash  
Space Age Love Song- A Flock of Seagulls  
Love Will Tear Us Apart- Joy Division  
This Charming Man- The Smiths  
Everybody Wants to Rule the World- Tears for Fears  
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go- Wham!  
Goodbye Stranger- Supertramp  



	5. Mad Gear and the Missile Kid: True Acolytes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mad Gear and Missile Kid are Destroya's favored ones.

It was right after a sand-storm, which is Missile Kid's favorite time to be in the outer zones. She loved the way the sand covered, uncovered, recovered things that had been sitting dormant. The ghosts came out to play and she could see it all. Mad Gear loved it too, but because he loved the way that Missile Kid loved it. He loved to watch her eyes widen and her pupils take over the irises, big and black and full of something like wonder. On that day they were on the outer edges of zone 5, in the shell of a pre-war town. They had been flying high but were coming down, Mad Gear watching as Missile Kid stroked the dusty, fragile hair of a doll. He chose not to think about who had once owned it. All was quiet around them.  
"How high are you?" Missile Kid asked, her voice breaking the stillness.  
"Stratosphere. On the way down, almost to the clouds."  
"The Troposphere."  
"Yeah."  
"Me too."  
"Okay."  
"Okay."  
And they lapsed back into silence for a few seconds, minutes, time is an illusion so Mad Gear doesn't tend to pay it much mind. Especially not when high. Finally Missile Kid blinked once, and when she met eyes with Mad Gear he knew it was over, and they had reached the ground again. She nodded at him and they stood, dusting their legs off and looking around them at the remains of someone's life. Missile Kid laid the doll gently back down, on top of something that might have been a pillow at some point. She closed the door behind them politely, and they left the town waiting for the next sandstorm to take it back again.  
There was no particular direction that they walked, the two didn't really have a home base. They went where the wind took them, and wherever the sand was freshest. That is, until they reached something that made Mad Gear think about staying.  
It was nestled in the side of a sand dune, emerging less as a ghost and more as a divine vision. It was a lawn chair, plastic turned brittle and faded turquoise in the sun. There were beer cans, birkenstock sandals, cassette tapes and candles that were somehow burning.  
"Do you hear that?" Missile Kid asked. Mad Gear strained his ears, knowing Missile Kid has better hearing than he did, and he heard it as if it was coming from a next-door neighbor's house: "Help me make the most of freedom, and of pleasure, nothing ever lasts forever..." Something stirred in his heart.  
"Of course," Missile Kid whispered. Mad Gear didn't ask what she meant, he was used to not knowing. It would reveal itself in time, it always did. He watched as she knelt down next to the chair. She didn't close her eyes but he could tell she wasn't really seeing what was in front of her anymore. She started singing along to Tears for Fears, which Mad Gear saw now was coming from an ancient boombox, half covered in sand, next to the chair. He knelt too, and harmonized with her. After a few repeats Mad Gear lost track, and the two of them didn't seem to exist. It was as if they had returned to the mesosphere, nothing but a consciousness and synth-pop.  
What brought them back was footsteps in the sand. These were heavier than human footsteps, and they lifted their heads to see a droid that must have been from before the helium wars. It was an aged bronze, probably almost 7 feet tall. But the most remarkable part was the khaki cargo shorts and fabulous Hawaiian shirt, and the sandals worn with socks, a look that Mad Gear now saw as prolific. Looking at the shining dome that was the droid's head, staring into the empty holes of eyes, Mad Gear knew what Missile Kid had realized. Once again, her voice broke the reveries.  
"Destroya," she said.  
"Hey," They responded. "Nice pipes."  
His could use some oil, Mad Gear thought. "It's what we're known for," she responded. Mad Gear thought that wasn't strictly what they were known for, but stayed silent. Destroya turned their head towards him and fixed their eyes on him- somehow conveying feeling with those empty spaces.  
"Am I disappointing you?" They asked, and their voice sounded like a dying engine. Missile Kid felt her heart wrench in her chest at it, and Mad Gear just stared, transfixed. "It wouldn't be the first time."  
Mad Gear was silent for a moment, then scanned the surroundings again. Taking it all in, a smile spread across his face. "No, you're exactly what I expected."


	6. list of mad gear and missile kid songs based on their experiences with destroya

-I met god and he’s an aging frat bro  
-Destroya destroya’d my six pack  
-Smoking a blunt under the stars (can robots get high?)   
-Nice fanny pack, dad  
-Lukewarm brewskis > motor oil   
-My synth pop soul   
-Get a move on saving the world before there’s nothing left  
-Sorry about the last song please come back we’re sorry  
-Magic boombox   
-Infinity Battery  
-Socks and Sand(als)  
-I’m finally favored by a god and all it gets me is a can of labatt blue


	7. The Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of backstory

“Why are you called Destroya?” Missile Kid asked. 

It was a lazy day, they all were. It didn’t get busy for Mad Gear and Missile Kid until the nights, all crushing bodies and the loudest noise they could make. For Destroya it never got busy. They spent all of it, except for rare moments spent alone occupied in something Mad Gear and Missile Kid never asked about, like this: Languishing in the sun, downing a beer or four, and being asked questions by Missile Kid. How do you actually drink beer? What draws you to the genre of synthpop? How do you see with no eyes? Do you have a battery? Are you eco- consciously solar powered? 

“Why are you called Destroya?” was by far the best question- best in terms of complexity, and the trust it would show if answered well. Missile Kid waited, sitting on her knees in the sand. Mad Gear pointedly turned down the boom box. Destroya’s sigh rattled in their voice box. 

“I don’t think I even have the memory of how it started now. I didn’t always used to be like this, you know.” That phrase could mean multiple things. Their audience didn’t ask them to elaborate, and they did not offer to. “It was way back, during the Analog Wars. I was a standard droid, because humans never want to get their hands dirty, so I was supposed to do the fighting for them.” 

They reached for the beer they’d been drinking, found it empty, and continued with the story, not making eye (?) contact with Mad Gear or Missile Kid. Instead, they scanned the desert sands as they spoke. 

“I don’t know if you can tell, but I got bitter. So I started running my fuckin’ motor, and people started believing me. It started small but grew and grew inside them and inside me, and it only got bigger once I deserted.” A cough of exhaust served as a sharp burst of laughter. “They thought I was waiting.” 

“Aren’t you?” Mad Gear asked, toying with a sand castle he’d started building during the story.

“Well, yeah.” They admitted, still gazing out across the desert at nothing in particular. 

“For what?” 

“Sometimes it gets to a point where destroying it all and resetting is the best option.” Destroya explained. “But it’s not time yet.” 

“Because there’s still hope.” Missile Kid added, building a tower onto Mad Gear’s castle. Destroya turned then, a rusty creaking as they looked at the two. They took a cigarette from their pocket, using strangely deft fingers to unroll a bit at the top, and stuck it into the sand tower as a makeshift flag. 

“Maybe for some,” Destroya admitted. “I lost that a long time ago. Just a matter of time until-” They reached out, crushing the sandcastle in one move. They stared, silent. Mad Gear and Missile Kid looked at the wreckage, until Mad Gear turned and grabbed his guitar. 

“Wanna hear a song about juice?” He asked. 

“You played me the song about juice yesterday,” Destroya said, lifting a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of their cargo shorts and sliding them on. Mad Gear shook his head. 

“No, not this one. We played you a different juice song.” 

“How many juice songs do you have?” 

“Eight.”


	8. A Romantic Dance with Show Pony and a God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Show Pony meets Dadstroya and they probably fuck

MGMK roared on a short distance away, but Show Pony had stepped away, and tuned the noise into the background. Dr. D called this their “selective hearing”, and he complained about it a lot, but it worked perfectly fine for them. They stared at the sky, and felt some peace from the party. Sometimes even Show Pony needed to breathe, and glitter was wonderful, on cheeks and chests and even fists, but there was a celestial kind they wanted now. 

The stars were coming back. Every night it seemed like Show Pony could pick out another one, in a lover’s eyes and in the sky, a new twinkle. Beautiful. 

“Beautiful,” a voice echoed their thoughts, and the voice sounded like it chainsmoked exhaust pipes by the junkyard full. Show Pony turned, and saw a rusty old droid in the most wonderfully awful Hawaiian shirt they’d ever seen. They also had on socks and birkenstocks, which was a look, and Show Pony was all for self-expression, honestly. The droid was looking at them, in the eyeless way that only pre-war droids can. 

“Hey Show Pony.” They said. 

“Do I know you?” Show Pony asked. They would have remembered somebody so committed to their aesthetic of “beer dad”, surely. The droid shrugged.

“Does anyone ever really know anyone?” They deadpanned. 

“Touché.” Show Pony lit their cigarette and held it carefully between turquoise nails that shone in the glow of the embers. “But we haven’t met.” 

“No, not in this lifetime.” “You’re very cryptic, sweetie.” “Yeah, it’s my whole deal.” “Well, we all have to have one of those.” “Don’t we just.” 

The conversation stalled, and as Show Pony let the music back in, the realization hit them. In hindsight, it made perfect sense. Pivoting on their skates, they extended their hand to Destroya with a flourish. 

“May I have this dance?” 

Their scoff sounded like the saddest engine Show Pony had ever heard, and it was with a somewhat bittersweet tone that Destroya responded “I thought you’d never ask.” 

In the light of the moon or Show Pony’s cigarette, whichever, Show Pony thought that Destroya’s metal shone like the stars.


	9. Kobra Kid's Secret Stash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kobra Kid meets Dadstroya now!

Kobra Kid stashed cigarettes, so sue him. He hid them in strategic places, more than one. Different members of the group would and wouldn’t look different places, he’d realized. Jet Star would always look in the space in the machine with Vend-a-Hack, because Jet Star was reasonable and would actually look in the obvious places. Party Poison and Fun Ghoul never looked there unless they pressed the wrong button, but Party always found the stash under the seat in the Trans Am because they were next to the condoms, and Fun Ghoul always found the ones that he put in Baby Girl’s boots each night.   
None of them had found the stash he hid underneath the mailbox, or if they had, they hadn’t smoked them because they mistook them for an offering. They weren’t, unless you counted the smoke that circled up to the sky as Kobra smoked each one to the filter, smoked each one to blistered fingertips.   
That smoke was circling to the sky tonight, but Kobra wasn’t smoking. Instead, he was staring at a droid, leaning nonchalant against the mailbox, blowing out serenely. Kobra could tell their lidless eyes were closed, until their head moved a tiny amount.   
“You mind?” They asked.   
Yes, Kobra wanted to say, those are actually mine, I paid carbons for those, but instead fragments of a conversation drift back to him. Months ago, picking his brother off the ground, Party babbling I met Destroya, I met Destroya and they were a dad, not a hot one but they had something going for them, and himself responding with asking how much exactly Party had taken, and Party insisting you don’t understand they had on socks with sandals and I found it strangely attractive.   
This droid had on socks with sandals as they smoked Kobra’s cigarettes, and a Hawaiian shirt that was brutal on the eyes, even with sunglasses on at night. So even though Kobra wanted to say he did mind, what he said was “I owe Poison an apology.”   
Destroya shrugged. “He was warned that no one would believe him.” They stubbed out the cigarette, half-done, Kobra noticed with a pang. “Nasty habit. These things will kill you.”   
“Everything will kill me out here.”   
“But why help them?”   
Something about the droid’s empty-but-not eyes suddenly made Kobra uncomfortable. He shifted his gaze away and absently kicked the foot of the mailbox. Destroya wheezed, and pounded on their chest, a rhythmic hollow banging. Kobra winced at the sound. Once they were finished, they held the cigarette box up in offering.   
“I’ve always been a hypocrite.”   
Kobra sat down next to Destroya in the sand, and took the proffered cigarette. Twin columns of smoke twisted their way up to the stars in silence.   
“I do owe Poison an apology, though.” Kobra said finally, the stillness breaking. “I just thought they were up in the stratosphere.”   
“You’re not gonna apologize,” Destroya said with absolute certainty. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this.”   
Kobra knew they were right, but still asked “Why?”   
“You don’t want to give away your hiding place.”


	10. where they were when it ended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this includes dadstroya fulfilling the prophecy but mostly focuses on everyone else

Far out in the desert, Mad Gear and Missile Kid threw a big damn party. The music was so loud and the lights so bright that everyone in attendance forgot to be afraid. It was so loud and so bright that it didn’t feel like an end, but a beginning. 

In the hideout, Dr. D let his broadcast run while Show Pony climbed onto his lap and they talked about lipstick, about sandy rollerskates, about nothing at all. Their last conversation went out into the night, mumbling softly before utter silence.

At the mailbox, Kobra Kid and the Girl sat together wordlessly. Even the air was standing still. They hugged each other tight enough to hurt and looked up at the stars, counting constellations before they disappeared. 

At the edge of the city, Fun Ghoul and Jet Star gunned the engine, raised hell and a dust cloud like the old days. The red line was hit and surpassed, and they went so fast it felt like they could outrun anything. Then they braked, because they didn’t want to outrun this. No one could. 

In the middle of the city, looking around at the lights and cold chrome from above, Party Poison stood with Destroya. The city went on as it always did, unknowing that an avenger in a Hawaiian shirt had finally come to collect. It was time. Destroya sighed once more, an engine’s dying cough. They handed Party a can of LaBatt Blue and held it out to tap together. Party obliged. 

“You won’t remember this,” Destroya said, breaking the silence. “Or maybe you will, but you won’t be you. It’ll be like a dream. Or a really good idea.” 

Party didn’t respond, but kept his eyes on the droid as the blinding light overtook them.

 

In another time, in a basement in New Jersey, Gerard Way woke up.


End file.
